


Different Courses

by Nny



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Will you allow me to speak freely a second?” he asked, and Spock nodded; in spite of his age and station and the situation he was in, a hint of a mischievous smile tugged at the very corners of Mr Scott’s mouth. “If I’m honest, Cap’n, I’d rather not choose sides.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Courses

Mr Scott was _not_ in the hold and the leak, though negligible in size and certainly of no risk to the ship, appeared to be gaining force. The only sign of irritation on the Captain’s face was a slight flaring of his nostrils, but that he had _allowed_ that sign was enough to have the midshipmen scuttling out of his way like the rodents the ship’s cat could seem to do nothing about. 

He seized the tallest by the arm as he passed; Chekov, a lad of seventeen who was far too bright to be a midshipman, but too nervy to have yet pushed for his advancement. 

“Captain?” His lightly accented voice was not at its steadiest. 

“Tell me, Chekov. Where is Mr Scott?” 

The confusion was fleeting but noticeable; wherever he was, it had been assumed that he was there under orders. 

“Working on the cannon mounts, sir.”

Of course. It seemed he _had_ been working under orders, though not those he should. 

“And Mr Kirk is - ?”

“With the Doctor, sir.” 

“Thank you, Chekov.” 

That the lad, upon his release, cast a worried glance behind him was gratifying. Spock’s advancement had come young, and young he was still, too newly minted to have worn the gleam off his epaulettes. The _Enterprise_ had yet to see action; still the crew – with no knowledge of his mettle – held him in respect. 

Save one, of course; but he would have to wait just now. 

The gun deck’s ceiling was low, for those that worked it did so in a crouch, and space on board was ever at a premium. Spock’s head was canted to one side as he walked, and it took him a moment to spy Mr Scott, working as he was on the far side of Young Tom. (The cannon was so called through having been cast from the metal of the poor broken Butcher and thereby being, in a sense, its son. Such sentimentality ran rife, Spock had found, in the service.)

“Mr Scott.” 

The man’s weathered face appeared over the pristine back of the cannon. Spock could almost see the curses that were swallowed back as he recognised who had hailed him. 

“Cap’n,” he said instead, tugging his forelock with sawdust paled fingers. 

“Was I unclear in my orders, Mr Scott?”

A swift smile and a sidelong look, of the sort he had learned showed a kind of nervousness in the man – that he should show his emotions so freely, and thus offer so ready an advantage! 

“No sir,” Scott said, a questioning lift to his voice. 

“Then I am left to wonder why you have deserted the position in which I left you,” he went on, all politeness. 

Scott’s eyes went wide, and he scrubbed a hand through his thinning hair, leaving it near white with accumulated dust. Logic would lead Spock to conclude that he was nervous, but there was something almost secretive about the lack of symmetry in the line of his mouth. And, of course, Kirk had recommended him to this position.

“I was told that my orders had changed,” he was told, slowly and with care, as Scott laid down the tool he was using with a gentle click. 

“And whose orders are they that you give precedence to, pray?” 

Scott’s eyes shifted from his, forehead wrinkling like a sail with the wind taken out of it. 

“You’re wanting me to question my orders, now?”

Spock allowed no twitch of a muscle to betray his emotions; he had been well trained. Still, there was a moment’s pause, which Scott hesitated barely a moment to fill. 

“Will you allow me to speak freely a second?” he asked, and Spock nodded; in spite of his age and station and the situation he was in, a hint of a mischievous smile tugged at the very corners of Mr Scott’s mouth. “If I’m honest, Cap’n, I’d rather not choose sides.”

***

Because the _Enterprise_ was still unblooded, the surgeon used his quarters below decks only for sleep; his business thus far had been carried out in the bow of the ship, separated from the main part of the gun deck only by a few canvas screens, for the most part unstained. Though the main deck was cleared regularly for Sunday service, this was the closest the men had to a sacred place; since their doctor had saved Mr Barret, the Bosun, long minutes dead and drowned after plunging into the sea to rescue the youngest mid, the men had spoken quietly around it as circumstances allowed.

It meant there was no competition on the many nights that the doctor’s loud voice clashed with Kirk’s, in laughter, or bitterest argument, or in tuneless port-fuelled song. The two insisted they had never before this voyage laid eyes on each other, but their easy and instant camaraderie was not something that Spock understood or had experience of. 

When he rounded the canvas screen – having left Mr Scott, little chastened, attending to his duties in the hold – it was to find his first lieutenant kicking his heels like a child against the side of the locker on which he perched. The doctor was leaning against the side of the table he used for his operations, his battered boots crossed at the ankle, but he pushed himself immediately upright on Spock’s entering. 

McCoy had been a late addition to their crew, crossing almost directly from the _Enterprise_ ’s sister ship, the _Endeavour_. No physician he, for it took far more likely a chance of a prize to tempt a man of science aboard, but for a sawbones his reputation was more than sound. His experience ought, perhaps, to have placed him more advantageously within the fleet, but it seemed his eagerness to stay off dry land had worked to their advantage. An unhappy marriage, Spock had heard, but it wasn’t in his nature to pry. 

Kirk was far slower to rise from his sprawl and even when he stood, despite the obvious pride he took in his appearance, the insouciant air with which he eyed Spock made him appear at all times verging on the insubordinate. There was no question that he was aware quite how well it suited him. Spock fought the urge to straighten the line of his own coat. 

"Doctor McCoy." His greeting was accompanied with a tight nod, "and Mr Kirk. Doctor, if you will excuse us?"

McCoy was half across the cabin before he had finished speaking; not quite quickly enough to avoid being stayed by Kirk. 

"Bones." And then, to Spock, "you will not object if he stays? I am certain whatever is to be said can be said in front of a medical man. Indeed I find, when it comes to secrets, one of the profession can be of most use." 

Kirk seemingly made no effort to disguise his emotions, yet proved difficult to read; McCoy made evident in the effort of his restraint quite how poorly he regarded his companion's behaviour. It was impossibly galling to admit that a part of the reason Spock allowed Kirk’s request - insinuations and all - was that he was sure any warning he gave would be repeated tenfold, expressed more coarsely no doubt, but attended to far more closely for that. 

"Very well," Spock answered levelly. His voice was not loud but carried without difficulty, for canvas walls could only ever maintain an illusion of privacy. The only sound to be heard was the gentle chiming of the doctor's glass vessels as the _Enterprise_ heeled in the wind. "When I am convinced, Mr Kirk, that you know more of a ship than its use as a conveyance to exotic locations in which to collect ever more unpleasant venereal diseases, we will discuss your authority to countermand my orders." 

Kirk's jaw was tight, growing tighter with ever word; this was thrown into sharper relief as he turned to cast an incredulous look at McCoy, but there was no support to be found in his friend. McCoy had turned away, busying himself with the storage jars and tinctures arrayed in their small brass-bound boxes; Spock was almost certain he could catch glimpse of the corners of the very faintest of smiles. 

"At present," Spock continued, "I would thank you not to interfere with the running of my crew, and to pass on only those orders which I expressly give. There are words I should rather not utter, and brushes I would prefer not to tar you with, but your actions were untenable and cannot go without comment." His face was folded in unforgiving lines, and his voice - though lacking in measurable expression - held weight. "That your father was lost in battle is unfortunate; I have heard that he was of great credit to the service. That it prompted Admiral Pike to give you your step over candidates more qualified, and far, far less troublesome, unforgiveable." 

For a moment there was silence and stillness, or as much as there ever could be on a ship of the line: the _Enterprise_ creaked around them, singing in tune with the snap of the canvas far above; the bosun's whistle piped and a rush of feet above their heads answered it. Spock counted silently in his head, and had almost judged the silence to be long enough when Kirk spoke in a voice low enough to be only barely audible, emotion disguised by volume. 

"If we were on land right now - " his fists were clenched, his knuckles white. Spock watched the colour creep across his cheekbones curiously. "If you weren't who you were, I'd call you out for that."

"Jim!" McCoy's voice was sharp and heavy as any axe, but as an attempt to cut the flow of conversation it failed entirely. Spock fixed his eyes on Kirk's and answered with a calm that many a more seasoned captain would have envied. 

"If we were on land, Mr Kirk, I assure you I'd answer. As it is, we are aboard a ship. _My_ ship. And we are sworn to serve our country. And unless you would have me declare a traitor of you, I would suggest you pay my orders more assiduous attention in future."

Kirk's tension could, in safety, be ignored no longer. Spock left the cabin swiftly, ignoring the sharp motion that caught the corner of his eye. The harsh whisper of the doctor's voice accompanied him across the gun deck, thankfully largely unpopulated, but was blown away by the stiff breeze as soon as he ascended the ladder. 

The well ventilated infirmary was pleasant enough (if its occupants unfortunately less so) but it was nothing to the sense of freedom that was carried across the deck by a following wind. The gentle snapping of the ratlines and sails, the creaking of the masts as they moved imperceptibly with the change in the wind formed a chorus with the grinding of the holystone as the men scrubbed at the deck. Spock tilted his head back automatically to feel the gentle warmth of the pale autumn sun, and watched with pleasure the busy figures in the rigging. Among them, working with a studious grace that caught his eye was the figure of Nyota Uhura, small and slender enough almost to be one of the younger midshipmen.

There were advantages and disadvantages to every patronage, and Uhura was most definitely one of the former. It was not well publicised that the communications officer aboard the _Enterprise_ was of the female persuasion, but she had Admiral Pike’s wholehearted approval and admiration. Not only was she more than capable of memorising a new system of signals within bare minutes, but her capacity with languages was wondrous to the point of astounding. There were dissenters to her appointment, naturally; those among the crew that felt that having a woman – a _heathen_ , no less – aboard ship was tantamount to setting sail with a hole placed proudly in the bow. (Spock made a mental note, at the thought, to check on the progress of Mr Scott.) 

It was here, however, that the mixed blessing of Mr Kirk came into stark outline. Pike’s support, the support that had allowed Spock this post in spite of the circumstances of his family and background, had been paid for with certain allowances. Mr Sulu, the sailing master, had been a suggestion of the admiral’s, though upon working with the man Spock had no objections to his appointment. Mr Kirk had been another. And in this particular circumstance, James Kirk was a conundrum. His attitude towards Uhura was readily examinable, and Spock – although he would not admit to looking for reason to rid himself of his first lieutenant – took every occasion to examine it. That Uhura was a woman seemed not to register in his judgement of her; or rather, it registered – often, and repeatedly, and at unfortunately high volume – but only with regard to her person and not her ability to occupy her post. Had his attentions discomforted Uhura, naturally Spock would have intervened at once, but on more than one occasion Kirk’s limping had indicated that she was more than capable of settling her own disputes. (Spock would still have intervened, of course, had he not feared the same result.)

His reverie was broken, suddenly, as the reed-thin cry of the lookout far above reached the deck. 

"Sail to starboard!"

"Beat to quarters!" Spock called in response, his order echoed and repeated and snapped along the deck fast enough that it had barely died in his throat before the quick rattle of drums was speeding his pulse along with it.

***

Inexperienced as her crew was, to watch the _Enterprise_ prepare for battle was as impressive a sight as the ocean could hope for. The bright red jackets of the marines were naturally the first to catch the eye, lining up and presenting their arms, with the few blue neckerchiefs of the landsmen caught up between them until they were hustled on their way. The yellow cloth that had been made available for the able seamen and midshipmen made itself known in various configurations, tied around throats or upper arms or worn as makeshift belts, vivid still this early in the voyage and more than serviceable for indicating in the chaos of a skirmish which brandished sword belonged to friend, and which foe. The yellow danced in a satisfyingly ordered fashion, hustling those few blue cloths along with it, until all was in readiness; though slower, perhaps, than it strictly ought to have been, there was no cause for censure. Spock allowed Kirk - one of the first on deck from below, and most effective herder of the scattered crew - a small nod of approval before he took his glass from a deep pocket and trained it on the vessel ahead.

It was certainly small - no more than ten guns, he should think, and far more likely for eight - and its colours and signals were an incomprehensible mess. It looked as though she were working off an incomplete guide to the signals of three months before; but this was not his area of expertise. 

"Pass the word for Uhura," he told Kirk, who tugged his forelock and turned at once, without even a sidelong look to betray him, apparently distracted from remembered insult by the excitement of their first potential engagement. 

"I am here, Captain," came a low voice from behind him. Another reason to hold her in respect that bordered on wariness, and to always speak of her in phrases impeccably polite; Uhura moved on feet quieter than Tribble, the ship's cat. 

"See what you can make of their signals," he told her, handing across his glass.

There was no noise save that of the ship itself as Uhura gazed through the glass, the men on deck – even those who doubted her status – respectfully silent. 

"The signals are old," she concluded, snapping the glass shut decisively. "They are working off stolen codes, I should think, attempting to signal their status as ally; there is a Dutch flag on the bow and another, incompletely furled, on the stern, but the fashion of the men and the style of the ship declare her to be something other entirely. I believe her to be French, sir."

"Legitimate prey, then?" 

Kirk's voice, though pitched low, carried along the deck; the increase in tension was marked. 

"Match our course to that ship's, Mr Sulu," Spock called in the stead of a reply. He had been trained in battle tactics, naturally, and usually nothing so straightforward would be attempted, but the sheer disparity in size between the two vessels made anything more complex unnecessary, and there was a certain bravado in the course he had chosen which would give confidence to the crew. Although there were those among them who were familiar with battle, sailors from other ships and other captains (and, in some cases, other wars - some had been on the seas for the better part of their long lives), the majority of them were as fresh-faced - figuratively if not literally - as the boy Chekov, standing at his post now with a green look about him. Their inexperience might well count against them.

The fierce smile on Kirk's face, though, was reflected in more than half of the crew, and bloodthirsty as it may be the drumming in Spock's breast had not abated. 

"To your guns, men!" Kirk bellowed, the shrill piping of the Bosun's whistle echoing his orders. Below decks the doctor would be clearing out of his accustomed space, setting things in his lower cabin to rights; the habitual relative peace of the gun deck replaced with the rush of feet, the sharp smell of cordite, the close heat of a hundred bodies. 

"When we are in range we will fire a warning shot, Mr Kirk," Spock said quietly, his first lieutenant nodding sharply and passing the word.

***

The greater spread of canvas they could offer was paying off without question. The _Enterprise_ was making good headway, scudding along with the wind squarely behind her, and in spite of the slowly sinking sun Spock was convinced that they could catch the other ship before night fell. The regular gunnery practices that Kirk had always pushed for would pay off, no doubt, the prospect of a prize increasing the men’s focus and steadying their aim.

This state of tense readiness that preceded any action was torturous, in its way. There could be no relaxation, no activity because they were well trained enough that every preparation had already been undertaken. Instead they waited in mostly unbroken silence, the occasional comment among the ranks said barely loud enough for the next man along to hear and quickly hushed. The only break to the silence was the occasional call from the wheel as the sailing master fractionally adjusted their course. 

The ship they followed was making a break for the headland, a small unregarded island that had crept up on their port bow, and would offer them no protection or hiding place. The island was too small to appear on any maps Spock had to hand, one of innumerable specks of land that dotted the sea about them, home to nothing more exciting than a small colony of seabirds or perhaps a colony of seals. It was a desperate act and a futile one, and there was a certain satisfaction in that; that the ship they were chasing was as convinced as they that the fight would be quickly won was reassuring, but Spock didn't allow himself to expect anything but a fierce battle. Trapped rats were after all the most vicious sort. 

There was a low cheer as the ship ahead of them shed some of its canvas, apparently resigned to the battle that was to come. 

"Ensure the gun crews are ready," he told Chekov, and "steady there!" to Sulu. They were close enough now to see the name on the bow, almost to see the fright on the faces of the crew of the _Nero_. 

The deck shuddered faintly under his feet as Kirk passed on his earlier order to the crews below, the low cracking boom of cannon fire barely faded when the ball splashed to rest just ahead of the other ship's prow. As Kirk crossed back to join him the marines brought their rifles to bear on the _Nero_ , though it would be many minutes yet before they were close enough to have any effect. The ship's speed slackened still further and it was tempting to think that they had decided to surrender without even the attempt at a fight. 

Then another crack of cannon fire, further away this time, and before Spock could even cry warning to the crew he felt a heavy weight crash into him, the sharp painful crack of his head meeting the deck. Above him a chain scythed through rigging before it fetched up against the mast; too much of its velocity had been lost for it to have an effect on that too, but that was of no comfort to the unfortunate red-jacketed marine, Olsen, who had been in its path. 

Spock sat up quickly and turned his pounding head to see Kirk sprawled next to him, laughing under his breath and cupping his elbow in one hand. 

"The sprat has teeth," Kirk said, and pushed himself up to his feet, Spock following suit. 

"Thank you, Mr Kirk."

Kirk shot him a sidelong look, apparently looking for any sign of Spock's thanks being grudging. But his voice had been earnest, his tone genuine; Kirk seemed undecided how best to react to that.

The awkward moment was broken at the querulous call from the lookout above; both men watched in silence as a mast, previously hidden, rounded the headland before them. As the small ship they had had in their sights was joined by a man o’ war.

***

Spock envied Uhura’s vocabulary as he listened to her curse the men of the ships ahead, their habits and loved ones and lineage in every language she knew and a few more besides. As for himself, he felt momentarily frozen, the blocks of logic that built his worldview temporarily scattered and still. The crew were too well trained to ask for orders but their shifting made it unnecessary, made their stresses and worries and need for control evident enough.

“Shorten sail,” Kirk yelled beside him after a long and silent moment, “clap to halyards there!” His words were responded to instantly; Spock could not bring himself to begrudge this newest imposition on the official order of things because while it would not be enough to halt their forward motion – while running was now not even the remotest of possibilities – it would buy them a little time. 

Time for what, though, was the question at hand. To have taken the smaller ship would have been challenging enough; to take on a ship near twice the size in addition seemed impossible. What possible chance could they stand? 

Kirk’s hand on his arm startled him, and he met the man’s eyes with some little surprise. His expression was far friendlier than Spock no doubt had any right to expect, a fierce sort of joy shining in his eyes but kept carefully in check by the tight line of his mouth. 

“I never thought I’d have to tell you to keep a guard on your face, Captain,” he said in a low voice, barely loud enough to carry to Spock’s ears. “The odds are worse than many but we’re a match for them.”

Spock arched an eyebrow, carefully smoothing his expression around it until he appeared, at most, sardonic, letting no trace of other emotion show through. 

“You believe that, Mr Kirk?”

Kirk grinned. 

“What use is there in believing otherwise?” he asked, and Spock allowed the line of his mouth to relax a little in response. 

He took out his glass and examined the ships ahead of them, looking first at the name painted large on her bow. 

The _Romulus_ , from the looks of her, held twenty four guns, meaning she more than outmatched the _Enterprise_ ’s eighteen. Added to that was the knowledge that so impressive a ship would in all likeliness not be entrusted to an amateur crew, and the _Romulans_ were likely to be formidable if met at close quarters. What then were Spock’s options? 

"If we take on the larger," he said in a low voice, "we risk leaving ourselves open for the smaller to rake us before we can offer it any real fight. And yet the opposite is no less impossible, for the _Romulus_ would be upon us even as we attempted to bring the _Nero_ to heel." 

This sudden confidence, the change in their usual barely civil discourse barely threw Kirk, and he bent his head closer to Spock's, at once the attentive first lieutenant that he had always – in spite of Spock’s reservations – had the potential to be. 

"Our only chance would seem to be to take to our heels and attempt to outrun at least one of them,” he continued, “but to be able to get far enough ahead that we might fight the other and win before we are caught up is pure fancy." 

"Especially since the likelier to catch us would be the _Romulus_ , and she would be no easy prize," Kirk agreed. 

"Then how are we to avoid being taken?" Spock asked, beyond the ability to conceal his disquiet, pushed to the point of compromising his carefully held calm.

“Perhaps we should not,” Kirk said after a long moment of silence, a wild sort of grin taking shape on his face. “I may have a plan…”

***

“Steady there,” Spock called in a hushed tone; Mr Sulu’s hands were white knuckled as they held the ship to her course.

The sails were mostly loosely reefed now, and those that remained were being handled in a lubberly manner, wind spilling from them almost faster than they could catch it. The _Enterprise_ was moving sluggishly in the water, her usually elegant handling dulled by the lack of speed. 

The two other ships were either side and closing fast, their own sails reefed so that they did not overshoot; the _Enterprise’s_ bulk was almost shielding the _Nero_ from the sight of the _Romulus_. Every gun was trained on the _Enterprise_ but no shot had yet been fired – what need was there, they seemed to think, when the _Enterprise_ were so clearly outmatched? Boarding her and fighting the crew hand to hand would overwhelm them just as quickly, without risk of damage to the prize. It was an attitude that Kirk’s plan had been counting on, and he was proved right in every particular; his ability to read people was nothing short of miraculous. 

The tension of those last few seconds was impossible to describe, and had there been many crew left upon the deck Spock chose not to think what they might have read on his face as he waited for the opportune moment. Closer and closer the two ships came, close enough to read the avarice on the faces of their crews, close enough that it felt they could almost reach out and touch…

“Carry on!” Spock yelled, and the response was instantaneous; every sail was spread as quickly as it possibly could be, a fine white bank broken by the dark shapes of the crewmen in the ratlines, spreading their own jackets wide in the hopes of catching every last scrap of wind. The masts creaked loudly in protest, and any more than the minutes they needed would risk their cracking all together, but in the mean time the ship responded beautifully, leaping forward just barely shy of wood-warping speed. 

It was a ridiculous, impossible plan that oughtn’t to have worked in a thousand years, but the two enemy ships were overconfident, thinking themselves invulnerable through superiority in numbers. This – and the winds – counted against them. The _Enterprise_ shot out, just barely, from between them and the two ships, locked into their course, were unable to adjust their bearings in time. The slow rending crash as the two came together filled the world with sound, and the smaller ship started to list noticeably almost immediately. 

The exhilarated cheering from aboard the _Enterprise_ , premature as it no doubt was, was loud enough that Spock didn’t even hear the crack of the shot.

***

The first sensation wasn't pain at all. It was more a sort of numbness, a heaviness in his arm and chest that made moving difficult; the thump of his glass hitting the deck was impossibly distant, separate from him. The pain followed quickly enough, though, burning breathless ice that washed from his chest and shoulder outwards, radiating in steadily increasing circles as when a pebble is dropped into water only faster, racing, spreading with the beating of his heart.

Kirk shouted something, too loud to hear, and ran to Spock's side, catching him even before he had realised he was falling. The world stilled, lopsided, with a sickening lurch and a new wave of pain that had him biting down on his own tongue. From this angle, slumped into Kirk's side, he could see the gentle pattering rain of dark droplets that fell from his fingertips to the deck, trailing behind him as he was pulled towards the middle of the ship. 

Confused commotion; the next thing he registered was the discomfort of being lowered below decks, the awkward spindly strength of Chekov balancing him from below as Sulu held his weight from above. Kirk had disappeared, though the unmistakable tones of his voice raised in authoritative demand followed Spock down into the bowels of the ship. 

There was no natural light, when his eyes opened again, and the unfamiliarity of his surroundings pushed him as far upright as he could manage; barely an unsettling of his sprawl. McCoy was looking down at him, an untidy red line smeared from temple to jaw, adding to the ferocious aspect that the flickering candlelight lent him. He managed the barest of smiles – more of a grimace – when he apparently registered Spock staring back at him, but the tightness of his expression didn't allow it to linger for long. 

Something foul tasting was dropped into Spock's mouth; it spread numbness across his tongue and down into his throat, spreading warmth through his chest to crash against the sick throbbing heat that centered deep in his shoulder and calm it, a little. When his eyes fell closed again he couldn't say, the action affecting only the barest of alterations to the dark that surrounded him. 

"Dammit, Jim," he heard, just at the edges of a fevered dream, "I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker." 

There was confusion after that. Confusion and heat and unending, unbearable pain; the hammer of guns and the clash of steel and the ringing silence of nothing left of him at all. As he slipped under for the final time he thought for a moment he heard cheering from the deck above, but it couldn’t be loud enough to wake him.

***

Kirk cut an elegant figure in the Captain's dark uniform, an unaccustomed sobriety to his looks; or perhaps that was the dark band tied high around his left arm, contrasting with the gold of his epaulettes. Bones left the support of the mast to join him, stumbling slightly on the lurching deck, still as yet unaccustomed to the motion of the waves after their leave on the shore.

"Nice coat," he said, bracing his arms against the rail beside Jim's. 

Jim didn't turn, still looking across the water at the bustle of Portsmouth's waterfront, his eyes trained on one particular small section; Bones lifted a hand to shield his eyes and squinted in the sunlight reflecting from the water, then let out a short sharp snort. 

"Uhura's signed on to come with us again?"

"How could she resist?" Jim's mouth curled into a familiar insolent smirk, somehow managing to convey an anti-authoritarian sneer while _being_ all the authority there was aboard, higher even - if you regarded the way the Navy enforced a captain's right to power - than the Almighty's. 

"How could you afford to bribe her enough?" Bones shot back familiarly; his tone was far short of the respect that ought to be accorded to Jim's position, but the idea of bowing and scraping and allowing the bubble of solitude that the Captain usually claimed didn't sit well with either one of them. 

"You got your fair share of the prize," Jim said, "and there's the promise of plenty more to come."

"You're that confident in your abilities?"

"I'm that confident in my crew." 

Bones shifted his weight and patted the rail, still marked from their battle, scars showing white against the dark varnish. 

"And where are we taking this tub this time, then?" 

"Officially?" 

Bones shot him a sharp sideways look, registering the curl of his mouth, the way his fingers were wrapped tightly around the rail. 

"Officially," he repeated, tone wary. 

"Back into the seas around the Indies, charged with preventing our enemies from carrying war into those waters, from harassing our traders and stealing our goods."

"And unofficially?" 

Kirk beat a quick tattoo against the rail, pushing his weight away so that he stood unaided, his balance shifting minutely with the motion of the ship. He looked at home here, far more comfortable and at ease than he ever did on land; despite the unfortunate circumstances of his promotion, this was clearly where he was meant to be. 

"Unofficially, I thought we'd have a run at the _Maru_." 

"The _Maru_ ," Bones repeated, tone dull with surprise and no small amount of disbelief. 

"Yes."

"The _Kobayashi Maru_."

"You know of another?" 

"The apparently unconquerable prison ship? The one defended by two shore battlements with a peerless view of the harbour surrounding, at least two companies of marines, and the firepower of a small army?" 

Kirk grinned. 

"The very same." 

"I shouldn’t have stayed away," Bones said flatly. "It's been too long since anyone's told you you're insane." 

"Probably," Kirk said, then spread his arms wide. "What could possibly go wrong? We've got the fastest ship this side of - "

"Southampton," Bones said sourly.

" - the East Indies," Kirk corrected, "the finest crew the Navy has to offer, and the best surgeon on the seven seas. What more could a Captain ask for?"

"An exemplary first officer?"

The voice came from behind them. They turned quickly, and Kirk’s face changed quickly into a wide smile of welcome. 

“It’s been a challenge finding one,” he answered. “Apparently it’s been too long since I’ve been told that I’m insane, but it’s certainly said enough elsewhere.”

“Then it will take someone of great steadiness to temper you.” 

“And you know someone who fits that bill, do you?”

Spock walked forward, out of the shadow of the sails from above, the sling on his right arm a blinding white in the sun. 

“I might,” he said, and allowed himself to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the trekreversebang. With many thanks to the mods who allowed me extra time when my computer caught every virus going, and to pennyplainknits, torakowalski and catwalksalone for cheerleading, encouragement and the reading of various iterations. You guys are awesome.


End file.
